


how this river runs

by iwasfollowingyou



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Fluff, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Marriage, Post-Canon, Slow Dancing, Weddings, and i think we all need that, it's just soft and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 20:33:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20895695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwasfollowingyou/pseuds/iwasfollowingyou
Summary: was anyone expecting me not to write a wedding at some point?





	how this river runs

“I wasn’t going to mention it,” Hobie says, wiping his hands on a stained towel before tossing it onto the table with his tools.

Theo twists the band around his finger. “I wouldn’t have minded if you had.”

“I know.” Hobie smiles warmly, crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes, deeper and deeper with each passing year. “But I didn’t want to pry. Are you planning it now?”

“In a way.” Theo shrugs. “Consider this your invitation.”

They hadn’t wanted anything to do with mile-long guest lists or insufferable RSVP cards. Formality isn’t either of their thing, not when it comes to this. It’s like a breath of fresh air compared to the first time around. Instead of dragging his heels through the whole thing, he’s actually _excited_. He’s actually looking forward to it, instead of facing it down with a deep-rooted sense of dread. (Some of that, he presumes, may come from the fact that he’s actually marrying the right person this time).

“Give me a time and a place, and I’ll clear my schedule.” Hobie shoots him a wink, then turns back to the table he had been staining. He gestures for Theo to come towards him and guides Theo’s hands to the underside of the wood. Theo closes his eyes as he traces his fingertips along it, feeling for the seam. Factory-cut, this one, but careful imperfections have been added by Hobie’s hands. Theo steps back, and Hobie returns to work, talking to Theo as he does, pointing out the tiny details that Theo has been working on keeping track of for several years now. It’ll come to him eventually, Hobie says, as natural as riding a bike. There’s more gray in Hobie’s beard now, more lines in his face, but his hands are still as steady as ever, and the masterpieces that leave his workshop are as beautiful as they’ve ever been. He claims he’ll retire once Theo is ready to take over, but Theo knows that he’s never going to stop working, at least not as long as he’s capable of getting himself down the steps into the workshop.

There’s an apartment three blocks away with Theo’s name on the lease, but he spends so much time at Hobie’s that he may as well live here. As much as he loves their tiny place, with its cramped kitchen and oversized windows, he knows that one day soon he’s going to have to come home, for real, for good. His bedroom, the one he’s stayed in since he was fifteen, is still waiting for him. Hobie hasn’t touched it. Pippa has left most of her things behind (no use dragging them to London, she says, there’s not enough room as it is); her room is like a shrine to her childhood. Theo still sits in there sometimes when he needs to think. Classical music helps him focus, and it just sounds better in Pippa’s room. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to change it. As much as he’s moved on, no longer desperately clinging onto any memory involving Pippa, there’s a sense of nostalgia that’s taken root, vines growing up and around the bed, the windowsill, the shelves with her little knick-knacks.

They still haven’t changed the sign (Theo never will — he can’t bring himself to even think about it), but Hobie reminds Theo as often as he can that the place is just as much Theo’s as anyone else’s. _Home_. The apartment is, too, for now. But he knows that it’s not permanent. Nothing else in his life has been, except for Hobie and the workshop.

Theo takes a deep breath in — wood shavings, slight smokiness, cup of coffee left over from the morning.

“Hobie?”

“Yep.”

“Thank you.”

Hobie glances over his shoulder. “What for?”

“Everything.” He shrugs. “I owe you a lot.”

“You don’t have to thank me for anything.” Hobie shakes his head. “I’m happy for you, Theo. I’m glad you’ve found your place.” He glances down at Theo’s left hand. “And your person. Not everyone is that lucky. Enjoy it, alright? For as long as you can.”

The way he says it, Theo can tell he’s thinking about something — someone — else. Theo nods and offers Hobie a small smile before turning and heading back up the stairs to the shop. He hears a quiet sigh behind him, then the telltale sounds of Hobie getting back to work.

* * *

Theo’s tie is refusing to cooperate. He’s tied and re-tied the damn thing six times, and it still refuses to sit correctly. With a frustrated groan, he whips it off of his neck and throws it onto the bed. He can feel it mocking him.

“Tied how many damn ties in my life,” he mutters, glaring at the offending fabric, “and this _one day_…”

There’s a knock on the door, and Pippa pops her head in, bright smile lighting up her entire face. A rush of relief floods through Theo’s body, and he opens his arms and quirks an eyebrow expectantly. Pippa bounds into the room and throws her arms around his neck. He returns the gesture, wrapping his arms around her waist and taking a deep breath in. She smells like breakfast — Hobie’s cooking.

“Don’t you look dashing,” she says as they pull away. She carefully plucks a hair off of the shoulder of his jacket. “All fancied up.” Spotting the tie on the mattress, she picks it up and holds it in front of him, lips pursed and head slightly tilted. “I don’t think this is the one.”

“No?” Theo asks, slightly nervous all of the sudden. “I thought…”

Pippa shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Let me see.” She heads for the closet, where a collection of ties — a mix of Theo’s, Hobie’s, and Welty’s — waits. There’s a brief moment of rustling around before she pulls one out with an “Aha!” and returns to stand in front of Theo.

“You think?” He eyes the burgundy suspiciously. “I don’t know if it will really go with Boris’.”

“What’s he wearing?”

“Blue.”

“It’ll go fine. Come here.” She ties it with expert efficiency and fixes his collar, then takes a step back. “There we go!” She nudges him towards the mirror, and he takes a minute to look at his reflection.

“Okay, you were right.”

“As usual.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He fixes the buttons on the sleeves of his shirt. Pippa smooths out the fabric over his shoulders, then smiles brightly at him through the mirror. “All set?”

Pippa nods. “You look fantastic. Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

She lightly punches his arm. “You’re gonna be great, Theo. All you have to do is sign a paper. How hard can it be?”

He glances down at her hand. There’s a ring sparkling on her finger, a thin silver band with a small diamond in the center — and there’s a weekend cleared in his schedule to travel to London next month.

“Look at us,” he says softly. “How did we end up here?”

“Are you getting sentimental on me?”

Theo shakes his head. “Never.” A lie, and she knows it, but she doesn’t challenge him. “It’s just all making me think. Life, you know?”

It sounds stupid coming out of his mouth, but she seems to understand the sentiment behind it. There’s something hidden behind her smile — once upon a time, he would have tried to interpret exactly what she was thinking, but for now, he doesn’t need to. They both get it. Their lives are like zigzagging lines — intersecting, then separating, then coming back together, meeting for the first time the day of the explosion, then at odd intervals after that. He wouldn’t call them parallel; there’s too much overlap for that. But so many of the things they’ve experienced have been, if not together, in sync. He wouldn’t know what the name for it would be. Maybe it doesn’t need one. Maybe, as Boris would say, it’s just life.

She taps his shoulder, and he turns back around to face her. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek, and they stay like that for a moment, holding onto each other like life preservers.

Theo is lucky, he muses, that he can list off so many great loves of his life. His mother. The goldfinch. Boris. The shop. Pippa.

Fiery hair and a personality to match. Brightest smile on her side of the Atlantic. Greatest musician he’s ever heard. Enduringly optimistic. A beacon of light in some of his darkest moments. Now, more than when they were young, a steady presence, not a rock, but a raft to tether his own to — drifting together.

“I love you,” he tells her quietly.

“Love you, too.” She steps back, and he catches a flash of a tear in her eye. “They’re waiting for us downstairs.”

Theo nods, taking a deep breath in. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The “ceremony” is about as far away from extravagant as they can get — just the small group of people in a room, Theo and Boris signing the papers (Theo with a typical flourish, and Boris with his messy scrawl that’s somewhere in between English and Cyrillic) and shyly exchanging a brief kiss, much to the enjoyment of their guests. There’s no vows, no speeches. But it’s perfect. Theo has never felt so happy in his life, and he tells Boris as much, leaning in to whisper softly into his ear as they leave the courthouse.

They hold hands on the drive back to the Barbours’. It’s familiar, but all so new at the same time; Theo is all too aware of the band on Boris’ finger, pressing against his skin. He brushes over it, smiling to himself. The rings themselves aren’t anything particularly intricate, either. Simple gold purchased from one of Hobie’s antique friends. Nothing special, but perfectly understated. They look right on their fingers, as if they had always been there, like a vital piece that ties everything together.

“Hey, Potter,” Boris says quietly, drawing Theo’s attention from their hands to Boris’ face. He’s grinning, one eyebrow arched.

A sharp laugh escapes Theo’s throat. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“I’m married.” He _giggles_ then, and slaps his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. Boris’ smile only widens, and he shakes his head, expression fond. “Boris, I’m _married_.”

“Just you?”

“We’re married,” he corrects himself. “What the mother fuck. We’re—”

“Married, yes.” Boris rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Did you not realize this before we actually signed the papers? Do I need to call a divorce attorney?”

“Fuck off.” Theo makes a face at him. “Boris.”

“Theodore.”

“We’re _married_.”

Boris leans across the seat and kisses him, soft and sweet. After breaking away, he presses his forehead briefly against Theo’s. “Love you, Potter.”

The response gets caught in Theo’s throat, but Boris doesn’t need to hear it. They both know well enough.

He watches out the window as the city goes by, people going about their days without even a brief consideration of the state of mind inside the car. Almost nine million people around them. He wonders how many of them are experiencing something like this today — births, deaths, marriages, divorces… he wonders how many people this day is going to matter to for the rest of their lives. He wonders how many people are going to pass it by without a second thought, just another tally mark in the relentless passage of time. His life, he thinks, can be broken up into days like this: the day his father left, the day his mother died, the day he moved to Las Vegas. The day he met Boris. Days that could have passed without incident, but didn’t, days that are now permanently etched into his mind. For a long time, the horrible days outpaced the good ones. Finally, he thinks, the good days are starting to catch up.

He lifts their hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of Boris’, cool skin underneath his lips, and thinks, _I love you_. As if he’s heard, Boris glances over at him and smiles with the corner of his mouth.

“Save it for the cameras, Potter.”

“Fuck off,” Theo says again.

“Never.” Boris winks. “You are stuck with me forever, now. Your own fault!” He puffs his chest out proudly, a victorious glint in his eyes. “You are not second guessing, no?”

If he wasn’t riding high on so much joy, Theo would hit back with some clever response, but for now all he can say is, “No. Never,” because for as many things that he’s second guessed in his life, Boris has never been one of them.

He stares for a moment too long, and Boris regards him suspiciously. “What, Potter?”

“Nothing. I just love you.”

“Ha! Gay.”

“Oh my _god_.” Theo drops his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I change my mind. I want a divorce.”

“Nope. Not allowed. Sorry!” Boris punches his upper arm. “You love me, Potter.”

Theo looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “I might be reconsidering.”

Boris sticks out his bottom lip and gives Theo the most pleading eyes he’s ever seen. “You wouldn’t.”

The car pulls up to the curb outside the Barbours’ building. Boris unbuckles and slides across the seat to press himself right up against Theo, refusing to drop the kicked-puppy expression. Theo raises an eyebrow, unmoved, but gives in with a tiny smile when Boris kisses his cheek. 

“Come on,” Theo tells him. “We have people waiting for us.”

“But they could never be as important as you, my love.”

“Idiot,” Theo says fondly. He nudges Boris towards the door, taking his hand as they step out onto the sidewalk.

Upstairs, the reception isn’t much fancier than the event itself; Mrs. Barbour and Kitsey have organized some modest decorations around the room, but there’s no five-course meal or insufferable small talk with distant relatives. Besides the never-ending slew of congratulations, it feels just like one of the typical social gatherings on Park Avenue. Theo makes his way around the room to make sure he greets everyone, introducing himself to a few of Boris’ friends that he doesn’t know as well and chatting amiably about antiques with Hobie’s small group of guests.

At one point, someone puts on the record player in the corner of the room — something soft and slow, classical. Pippa would recognize it, if he asked her, and he turns to do exactly that, but she’s preoccupied with other business; namely, pushing Theo towards the middle of the room, over to where Boris is holding a class of sparkling cider and laughing with one of his friends, a tall, lithe woman with cropped dark hair and sharply winged eyeliner.

Theo looks back to Pippa with a confused expression. Pippa quirks an eyebrow and nods towards Boris. “It’s customary for the couple to have their first dance, no?”

He feels his cheeks warm and quickly looks away from her. He’s caught Boris’ attention now, and Boris reaches out for him, their fingers lacing easily together, like puzzle pieces. Theo leans in to whisper in Boris’ ear, “I think they’re expecting a dance.”

Boris, to Theo’s slight surprise, grins and nods. He hands his glass off to the girl — Hanna, Theo remembers — and tugs Theo into a clearer section of the room. He lifts their hands higher, then secures his other around Theo’s upper arm. It should be simple for Theo to remember what to do; he’s done this a million times before, with Kitsey and her friends and Mrs. Barbour and Pippa, but he’s a bit too distracted by the way the light is catching the curve of Boris’ jaw until Boris whispers, “_Potter_,” and Theo remembers that his job here isn’t to just stand and stare at Boris. He settles his free hand on Boris’ waist and pulls him a few inches closer to his body. They sway back and forth a bit, settling into a rhythm, and Theo can hear their guests whispering around them. He drops his head down against Boris’, pressing their foreheads together, and a soft smile tugs at his lips.

The song continues, guiding their steps in a small circle around the middle of the room, across the ornate rug where people have cleared a space for them, a makeshift dancefloor just for Theo and Boris. Boris tilts his head up and presses a soft kiss against Theo’s lips, and a rush of warmth flows through Theo’s entire body.

“I love you,” he breathes, and opens his eyes just quickly enough to catch the smile it brings to Boris’ lips.

“Yeah?” Boris asks, teasing, light dancing behind his eyes, and Theo nods. “Love you too, _муж_.”

The limited knowledge Theo has of Boris’ language, more useful now than it had ever been in college, comes in handy again, and the word sends another spark through his chest. He squeezes Boris’ hand lightly. “_муж_,” he repeats, sounding very much like an English speaker attempting to speak Russian, but Boris smiles anyway. “_Я люблю тебя._”

“You’ve been practicing,” Boris says appreciatively.

Theo kisses him once more before hiding his face against his neck, and Boris’ hand moves from his arm around his back to hold him tighter against him. Theo breathes in deeply — fancy cologne, the one Boris picked out special after spending half an hour forcing Theo to smell a million different types, faint whiff of cigarette smoke, and worked deeper, the permanent smell of Boris’ skin, of home.

_I love you,_ Theo screams silently. _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ until his heart is so full that he thinks it may burst. Boris turns his head to press his face into Theo’s hair, kissing the side of his head, then mumbling Russian into his ear — too quickly for Theo to understand everything, but he catches enough of the words to get the general message. _Love. Husband. Lucky._

The song draws to a close, and their movement stops, but neither pulls away. There’s a smattering of applause and whistles before the party resumes around them, bright conversations and laughter, but as far as Theo is concerned, there is no one else in the entire world besides the two of them. He lifts his head off of Boris’ shoulder to look at him again. Boris grabs onto the back of Theo’s neck and presses their foreheads together, holding Theo there with a light pressure, and over the years, Theo has come to understand the meaning etched into the gesture, as clear as day, as obvious to him as it should have been the first time, that night in Amsterdam, chills up and down his arms but the taste of victory sweet on his tongue: _I love you._

Theo brings his hand up to cup Boris’ jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek. When Boris relieves the pressure from Theo’s neck, Theo tilts his chin down, and he feels a content sigh against his lips before Boris’ are pressed to his once more. And he thinks it again, and again, and again, and each time the phrase passes through his mind, he thinks of all of the times he’s said it and all of the times he hasn’t — the first time, the last night in Vegas, when the words that had been in the back of his mind had finally reached the tip of his tongue, the first time he had to stop himself from saying them; the flat in Antwerp, Boris’ soft touches nearly coaxing him out of it again, but the fear still gripping onto his chest so tightly that he couldn’t do any more than return the touches desperately, gripping at Boris and holding on for dear life; and all of the times that came after it, the slow realization that this wasn’t temporary, that it is as permanent now as it was when he was a terrified kid with nothing left to cling to in the world but Boris. He thinks of the first time it finally left his lips — a freezing day a year after coming home, wind whipping through their coats, Theo’s shoulders hunched against the cold while Boris bounded along, laughing delightedly, shouts of “It isn’t that bad, Potter!” and “You would never survive Russian winter!” Snow-covered Central Park, their forms black against the stark white, Boris’ red scarf the only color in the landscape. Cheeks flushed pink and snowflakes caught in their hair, not even their body heat able to melt them, breath coming out in clouds like cigarette smoke, and Boris holding two fingers to his lips and pretending to take a drag. A gloved hand finding Theo’s, tugging him along the path, much too chipper for the tone set by the weather. Theo laughing despite himself and being rewarded with a blindingly bright smile. Boris had leaned in then, raising himself up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Theo’s cheek.

It had been sudden, even though he had known for nearly as long as he had known Boris. It was a fuse stretching across the years, lit with a match one night in the pool in Vegas, following at Theo’s heels to Hobie and Kitsey and Pippa, hotter and hotter the closer it got, until it finally reached the end, in the middle of the park on an icy December day.

“I love you,” he had said, his voice catching him by surprise.

Boris had stopped, turning his gaze to meet Theo’s, dark eyes slightly widened. “You what, Potter?”

A small smile reached Theo’s lips. “I love you.”

“Took you long enough.” And then Boris tackled him, shoving him backwards into a snowbank and pressing his mouth against Theo’s, laughter bubbling out of chest. The wind was knocked out of Theo when he landed, and it took a second for him to recover before he could bring himself to kiss Boris back, then grab onto the back of his jacket and flip them over so that Boris was falling into the snow, screaming in protest, but he was quickly silenced by a handful of snow being shoved into his face. Once he had wiped it out of his eyes and mouth, he returned the favor, throwing as much as he could back at Theo, and there were clumps of snow stuck in Theo’s hair and behind his glasses. The scuffle that ensued brought back vivid memories of Vegas, just as so many things did, with the cool water of the pool replaced with freezing snow. They wrestled around like children, shoving each other’s faces into the snow until their skin was bright red and their hearts were racing.

It came out again as they laid on their backs, cold seeping in and soaking their jackets, a million imprints of arms and heads and legs surrounding them. “I love you.”

That time, Boris had rolled himself onto his side and fixed Theo with a devilish grin. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” A soft, chilly kiss on his cheek. “I love you, too.”

And suddenly the day hadn’t been quite so cold.

Boris is the one who whispers it now, his lips just a hair’s width off of Theo’s, and then he finally pulls away, but his hand stays tightly in Theo’s. Pippa appears on the edge of Theo’s vision, and he looks over to her. She’s smiling widely, freckles popping on her cheeks, and he thinks there might be the flash of a tear in the corner of her eye. Hobie is standing over by Mrs. Barbour (they get along surprisingly well, but Theo realizes that he shouldn’t have been shocked by it, seeing how much they both love old things) with a glass in one hand and a delicate pastry in the other. He catches Theo’s eye over Mrs. Barbour’s shoulder and nods in acknowledgement.

Theo guides Boris over to the side of the room and sits down against the arm of the sofa. Boris flops down next to him, without a care for the pristine condition of the cushions, which is more endearing than it should be, but it’s always a nice change of pace, the way Boris doesn’t treat things as so valuable that they cannot be comfortable. His knee knocks lightly against Theo’s, and after a second Hanna is back with a full glass of cider. Boris gives her a kiss on the cheek as he takes it.

Their guests are more preoccupied with one another than they are with the grooms, and it’s a relief. As much of an expert as he’s become, Theo still can’t handle the type of social events that a life with the Barbour’s would have entailed. He prefers it like this: a small crowd enjoying the refreshments, a mix of different conversations rising above them, a comfortable seat in the corner of the room with Boris’ thigh pressed up against his and Boris’ thumb brushing over the back of his hand, and Theo realizes that this is it — this is what love feels like. This is what it feels like to be surrounded by love, drowning in it, breathing it in and letting it carry him under. Boris’ touch, the ring on his finger pressing into Theo’s skin, the subtle twitching of his hand, always restless.

Theo can make people happy. He does make people happy. The customers that come away with a beautiful piece of furniture, giving an old thing a new home where it will be cherished; Mrs. Barbour, their discussions about art of all kinds, the gifts he brings her that she treats as holy objects, putting them on display whenever he comes over; Hobie, teaching him how to create new from old, how to work the old in a way that breathes life into it. And above it all, Boris. He doesn’t think he would have believed it before, but there’s no mistaking the soft look in Boris’ eyes whenever he looks at Theo, or the fond smile on his face whenever Theo comes home from a late night in the workshop and collapses into bed, or the reverent touches as they fall against each other, sometimes as desperate as when they were kids, but more often than not just enough to be there, reminders that they have each other now, and that neither is ever going to leave again. The way Boris’ voice changes when he speaks to Theo, the lilt that Kitsey calls his “lovey-dovey voice,” gentle and coaxing and nearly in awe. Boris has never been one to hide what he’s feeling, and he keeps it on display for Theo. Happiness. Boris is happy. Theo makes him happy.

“Potter.” Boris sits up and rests his chin on Theo’s shoulder, looking up at him with innocent eyes. “Think I need a smoke.”

“Hm?” Theo lifts his hand to brush a loose curl back into place.

Boris nods towards the door. “There is balcony here somewhere, no?” When Theo nods, he adds, “Show me.” It isn’t a question, not even a request. Theo gets to his feet and slips his hand easily into Boris’. They make their way stealthily out of the room, ducking any glances — not that anyone would stop them, anyway, but there’s a bit of a rush that accompanies sneaking off together.

The tops of the trees in the park are just visible in between buildings, smudges of red and orange and green like an artist’s palette. The sun hangs low in the sky, the last rays reflecting off of glass buildings and turning the whole city golden. Boris retrieves a cigarette from the pack in his suit pocket and lights it, then tosses Theo both the pack and the lighter. They lean side by side against the railing, taking lazy drags of their cigarettes and watching cars go by beneath them. It’s the kind of weather that’s just cold enough to actually feel it — the changing of the seasons on the horizon, a shift from the pleasant September days they’ve been experiencing. It’s supposed to snow late this year, Theo’s heard, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be much warmer. For now, though, it’s comfortable enough to stand there with Boris, their hips pressed against each other’s.

“Where do you want to go?” Theo asks. Boris glances over at him, and he clarifies, “For the honeymoon.”

“Did not think you were the honeymoon type.” There’s a sly smile on his face.

“I thought we would. It’s traditional, isn’t it?”

“When have we ever been traditional, Potter?” Boris blows a long stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, eyes dancing playfully. “Your pick, then. If you want to.” Theo starts to shake his head, but Boris continues, “I have traveled enough. Your choice, Potter. Anywhere you want to go.”

He has to think about it for a few minutes. There aren’t many places that come to mind right away. Both of them despise the beach, which eliminates many of the more common options. There are always those couples who go on “alternative” honeymoons, volunteering or sailing or whatever, but that isn’t quite their vibe, either. Boris is right — Theo isn’t really a honeymoon type. Besides, he doesn’t want to leave Hobie alone for too long. He’s more than capable of handling the workshop by himself, of course, but without Boris and Theo there to work the sales floor, he’d probably have to close for a few days. Theo racks his brain, trying to come up with something.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “I was hoping you would.”

“We are, ah, what’s the word—” Boris taps the end of his cigarette against the railing, eyebrows furrowing— “Yes! Homebodies, no?”

Theo cracks a smile. “I guess we are.”

_Homebodies_. He always has been, when it comes to New York. But he never would have thought the word would apply to Boris — Boris, constantly moving as a child, never staying in one place for long enough, bouncing around from country to country and picking up flavors of each accent he encountered; Boris continuing in the same vein as an adult, his this-and-that career taking him across the globe, nowhere truly his. But somehow, over the past few years, Boris has come to think of New York as just as much of a home as Theo does. They’ve carved out a space for themselves here, the shop and their tiny, cramped apartment and their neighborhood bars and coffee shops.

“If you think of somewhere you want to go, let me know.” Boris finishes off his cigarette and drops it onto the balcony, grinding it down under his heel. Mrs. Barbour won’t be pleased, and Theo is about to say as much when Boris picks it up himself, keeping it tucked in his hand to throw out later. “For now, I am happy here. No traveling necessary.” He raises an eyebrow. “You are happy, yes?”

Theo shakes his head with a smile and pulls Boris in for a soft kiss. “Ecstatic.”

He mirrors Boris’ actions with his own cigarette, even though it’s not quite as far gone. They stand against each other for a few more minutes, Boris’ arm settling easily around Theo’s lower back. Theo leans into the touch and responds with his own arm draped over Boris’ shoulders. Boris tilts his head against Theo, curls rustling against Theo’s suit jacket. Theo presses a kiss into Boris’ hair and takes a deep, relaxed breath.

“_Я люблю тебя_,” Boris tells him quietly.

“I love you, too.”

There’s still a party waiting for them inside, but Theo doesn’t much care at all. He wonders if anyone misses them. He wonders, then, if they could sneak out entirely, head straight home without saying goodbye. It’s tempting, especially with the way that Boris is starting to drag his fingers up and down Theo’s side, but he’s well versed enough in societal conventions to know that leaving without at the very least thanking the Barbours would be terribly rude. But they can take a few more minutes, at least, drinking in the cool air and last few drops of sunlight.

Theo doesn’t consider himself a religious person. He doesn’t go to church or pray or believe in some almighty power that rules over everything. But he thinks, if there really is something after death, the state of eternal joy that the street preachers try to tell him about, that it would be something close to exactly this. 

**Author's Note:**

> as usual i wasn't sure what to use as a title, so i stole a line from a boris & theo song (grow as we go by ben platt). anyway boris and theo deserve all of the happiness in the world and i am more than happy to give it to them. leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed and follow me on tumblr @vaguelyprophetic :D


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